Tick Tick Tick (25 page)

Just as we’re about to drive out, Connie raps at the window. I bring it down; I can see the fear in her eyes, hear her laboured breathing. I press my fingers around hers, squeezing them; she squeezes them right back. And in some strange defining moment, amidst all the heightened testosterone and macho men being loaded up with weapons, I realise right there and then just how much I love her, how much I need her; and looking into her eyes, I can see that she feels exactly the same way.

‘It’s going to be alright,’ I say. The first tears fall, tumbling down her cheek. Mack looks the other way.

‘Please don’t do anything rash, he’s a crazed killer, please.’ Her eyes plead with me.

‘I’m going to be fine, don’t worry.’

She softly says, ‘Come back to me.’

I smile at her, brush away a stray tear. ‘I will… I promise.’

She moves back as Mack guns the accelerator pedal and we speed away. I watch her in the wing mirror, standing alone and waiting for me to come back. Jesus, I hope I fulfil that promise.
Now, focus
.

As we swing out onto the main streets, we quickly take over and become the lead car. I spot the police helicopter and light aircraft coming in.  Time to move, at last we were finally going to get him.

‘You think Tim finally fell off the rails because of his drug habit?’ asks Mack, while driving at seventy miles an hour.

I hang on for grim death. ‘Perhaps seeing the work of his hitmen has rubbed off on him; you know, some serials are surrounded by death and destruction for years before they start their own sick fantasy.’

Mack scrapes past cars with no regard for my safety, or his own.

‘He used to have a mansion in Knutsford years back, I remember, wonder what happened to bring him down to a seedy flat on the wrong side of town?’ he replies.

‘His file shows that he was caught six years ago for drug dealing. A large haul was found in his house worth several hundred thousand pounds, but as he had four long-term friends living there, and there was no other evidence to tie him personally to the drugs, the tosser got away with merely a heavy fine and probation. I doubt after he was caught, he managed to maintain the low profile required for the big drugs cartels who want you to quietly push large amounts of crack around. More than likely, he started using what he could himself and went downhill.’ I hope the son of a bitch had suffered badly in some way… any way.

‘Life just drags you down,’ smiles Mack, almost clipping a new Lexus which veers into oncoming traffic, but the driver swerves back into the right lane at the last moment. His passenger looks like he’s about to have a heart attack. I know the aftershocks of Mack’s driving, so I can sympathise.

I stare out the window, noticing only the constant blur of traffic. I see Connie’s face flash past and try to focus my mind.
Control your mind, control the day.

We pull up first; the sirens have been switched off so as not to alert him. Even before the engine is switched off I’ve kicked open the door, my feet racing towards the flat building. I can hear Mack close behind, hear him panting already.

Police cars slide into position; armed response vehicles screech up. Expertly, they pull their guns and take up positions from every conceivable angle, trying to cover all entry and exit points. The helicopter dances overhead, its rotor blades carving through the air.

‘Where’s Downey and Mack?’ screams Grimes.

‘They’re already in sir,’ replies the nearest copper.

Grimes kicks the car door. ‘Goddamn it, I told them to stay back.’

I’m racing up the stairs three at a time, ignoring the lift, my taser already drawn; although frankly I wish it was a handgun. A woman opens her door, a small child gripping her hand; I flash my card and roughly shove them back in, no time for niceties now. Flat 4c. We stand at either side of the door, each catching our breath, trying to slow our racing heartbeats down.

‘Have we got confirmation of the search warrant?’ I whisper. I’m not letting this bastard get off on a technicality; everything has to be done right.

Mack nods and motions to his inside jacket pocket. Cleared to go.

I give Mack the nod and kick the door in; it bursts open like a piece of paper. Silently I move through the hall, my senses on heightened alert.
Go on Fash, make my day and stick your neck out, so I can pump fifty thousand volts into you, and then Mack can pump fifty thousand more.

The main room is dark; the only light filters in from behind a flickering tatty curtain. I can see a computer is switched on, the screen saver a riot of explosions; so this guy thinks he has a sense of humour. Mack nudges me; I see the stockpile of weapons and drugs lined up like his own deranged, doped-up shop. We check each cupboard, wardrobe; nothing, not a damn thing. He’s nowhere to be found – did he get tipped off? By whom?

‘Fuck it.’ My fury is palpable.

‘This place is like a flippin’ army depot,’ says Mack, picking up a Glock 22.

I’m seething with frustration. ‘What’s the son of a bitch planning now?’

Just as the words come out of my mouth, another flat door opens with a creak and footsteps stop at ours. We both swivel round at the same time.

‘You bastards,’ shouts Fash, bringing up his gun.

‘Down,’ I scream at Mack. Fash shoots at me as I tumble towards the bedroom door, the bullet skimming off my leg; drawing blood, but with no major damage. Fash turns and breaks for the stairs, as he fires again a bullet smashes into the door frame. Shit, we’re sitting targets. Mack glances at me and picks up the Glock 22.

‘Don’t do it, Mack,’ I yell. He checks the bullets and grabs some spare. I can’t stop him.

Mack is out of the door first, his gun in hand, cocked and ready. He’s off running down the hall as I drag myself up and out after them.

Fash is up ahead. ‘
Drop the fucking gun
,’ Mack screams, as Fash turns and shoots at him.

I hear the distinct shot of a bullet hitting the door frame, splintering it. Fash breaks for the window at the end of the hallway. Mack fires, it misses as the glass explodes, shattering with the shot. Fash ignores it and dives through like a flippin’ gymnast, landing on the fire escape. He’s up and running. Mack’s already after him; I’m following close behind.

‘We got one runnin’, he went out of the back,’ I scream into the radio.

Mack hurtles through the window with me moments behind him; we both clatter down the fire escape.

‘Mack, don’t,’ I’m still screaming.

Fash stands square at the bottom; two armed coppers appear around the corner.
Bang bang,
both killed instantly. Shit! Fash hardly breaks stride as he bends down and picks up their weapons, and keeps on running, turning every few seconds and firing at us. The promise I made Connie flashes though my mind. I try to get a guess on how far away he is for the taser, but it’s pointless; he’s moving far too fast.
He’s flying as high as a flippin’ kite
, I think.

Fash turns and kicks a door open, and I can hear footsteps on the stairwell. Mack is first through after him.

A young man in a pinstriped suit appears; Fash shoots him straight through the head, and his body topples down. Mack jumps over him, focused. I grab the guy as he groans, blood seeping from his head. His eyes flicker, he’s fading fast.

‘Goddamn it.’ I know he only has seconds to live. ‘We’ve got another one down, Fash is still running.’ I yell into the radio. Where the hell is everyone?

Fash hears one of the lift doors slide open, he swivels.

‘Hi,’ he says.

‘Hello,’ replies a woman, her dress billowing.  As she exits he shoots her in the back of the head; brains, skull and flesh erupt, as she crumples to the ground.

Fash leaps into the lift, and the doors start to close. Mack sees a gap and firing blindly, squeezes into it. The doors slide shut before I can get there.

CHAPTER 27

The lift is empty, and it’s starting to move. Mack looks up and sees that the lift hatch is open; the son of a bitch is probably on top. He takes aim at where he thinks Fash is and shoots. In reply – shots rain down on him, pinging off the lift walls; he can feel the heat of a bullet in his shoulder and tumbles backwards, pain piercing every fibre of his being.

‘Shit, son of a bitch.’

He quickly reloads, blood seeping down his left arm, dribbling onto his hand –
my blood
, he thinks. As the elevator continues to rise, another hail of bullets sprays down on him. Pain ruptures through him as he tries dodging, struggling to get out of the way of the onslaught.

One enters his leg, another rips though his chest, his body convulsing. He knows it’s bad, there’s blood everywhere, rich ruby-red blood draining the very life from him, and seeping slowly over the floor.

He can feel the blackness coming and wonders if this is what death is all about; is this what it feels like? Where is the bright white light and the hand of God? He thinks of Betty, Garrett and his daughter, and how much he loves them. He can vaguely make out the sound of pounding footsteps entering the floors beneath him, the sounds of rifles being cocked into place.
A little late
, he reflects,
typical, but there you go
. He can feel his lungs tightening as he struggles to breathe; the pain is too much.

Out the corner of his eye he can see Fash leaning into the lift opening. His years in the force tell him that he has one shot, and one shot only; better make it damn good – he doesn’t want to die for nothing.

He summons up what little energy he has left and pulls up his gun, without even taking a good aim. Just floating on pure instinct, he fires at the arsehole… BANG.

‘Mack? Mack?’
he can hear Downey screaming, but he no longer has the energy for words.

Fash’s body recoils backwards and Mack hears him screaming as he falls down the side of the lift shaft. He hears his body thump off the concrete below, then pure and utter silence. His breath is coming shorter; he feels nauseous, faint, but somehow he struggles to the lift buttons. With one bloody hand he manages to punch the ground floor button and the lift sinks, crushing the murdering swine below. If he wasn’t already dead, he is now. Satisfaction permeates slowly though Mack’s brain.

‘How does it feel, you soddin’ bastard?’ he gasps, struggling for every tiny bit of air.

He can feel himself slipping again, he doesn’t want to die, can somebody… anybody, get him the hell out of there? His body convulses, pain screams though him, searing lightning pain from every wound. He’s cold, so very, very cold; as he starts to tremble, his vision is blurring, he slides onto the floor and sinks into his own warm blood.

The lift doors are manually forced open as I jump through, cradling Mack in my arms, using my own bare hands to try and staunch the wounds, although the blood still spurts through.

‘What… you think you’re James Bond now?’ I ask.

A faint smile flickers over Mack’s face. ‘Yeah, right.’ He can hear his own voice is weak, his breathing laboured, his pulse draining away.

‘You’ll be all right.’ I know my voice is shaky. Mack can see the tears in my eyes, and knows that he’s nearing the end.

‘I know that… what you worrying for?’ croaks Mack.

‘Did you get the son of a bitch?’ I ask, as a single tear slides down my face.

‘Damn right I did,’ says Mack.

‘Well, where is he?’

Mack manages a faint laugh. ‘You’re standing on him.’

All I can see is the blood. My shoes and trousers are soaked in it; with bloody hands I cradle Mack, refusing to let him go, while screaming my lungs out for the paramedics. But Mack’s head lolls back, the mouth still open, gasping for breath, while his big heart finally stops beating, and his body shudders in sublime surrender.

CHAPTER 28

Mack is wheeled out to a waiting ambulance, drips attached to every vein they can find. He’s grey, his eyes have sunken back into the hollows, the blood still pouring from him as ambulance crew rush to staunch each flow while others pump frantically at his heart, refusing to give in. I want to drop to my knees right there and then and pray – instead I do it silently.
Dear God, bring him back to us, please bring him back.

Jesus, I worship the man. I can’t imagine working as a copper without him, we’re a team;
we’ve always been a team
. I vow right there and then that I’ll never work with anyone else. If it isn’t me and Mack, then I don’t want any other partner… ever.

My clothes are sodden with his blood; my hands are a shade of cardinal red, the smell of Mack’s blood permeates the air.

It should’ve been me in that lift; I’m reasonably young and have no wife, daughter or grandchildren that would be lost without me. Jesus Christ. The guilt washes right over me like a tidal wave in full surge and I am lost.

A copper calls me back in as they’re lifting the lift up. Mack’s blood drips through the doors, and I know that I’ll never forget that sight for the rest of my life;
the very soul of my partner dripping, splashing onto my shoes
. I want to be physically sick.